


come and rest your bones with me

by 20thcenturyhobi (wanderlustnostalgia)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Fainting, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Worry, doyoung is confused and so am i, we working it out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 07:38:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21424600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustnostalgia/pseuds/20thcenturyhobi
Summary: Doyoung worries about Jungwoo.
Relationships: Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung & Kim Jungwoo, Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Kim Jungwoo
Kudos: 74





	come and rest your bones with me

**Author's Note:**

> I miss Jungwoo but he deserves as much rest and care as he can possibly get.
> 
> Title from "Sunday Morning" by Maroon 5.

Doyoung worries about Jungwoo.

Doyoung worries about everyone, really. He worries about Taeyong and he worries about Mark and he worries about Johnny and he worries about the Dreamies (“hyung, chill, you’re worse than my mom,” Jeno said once, when he was sick and Doyoung showed up at his house with soup as consolation for missing out on schedules; god, don’t even get him started on Jaemin), but Jungwoo—

There’s just something about Jungwoo, about his demeanor, about the way he carries himself, that feels so…ethereal. Fleeting, almost, like if Doyoung blinks or handles him too roughly he’ll disappear into thin air. He was barely nineteen when they first met, still looked so young and so vulnerable and if he hadn’t just been told the kid had one of the best auditions in the company’s history Doyoung would have been certain he’d be eaten alive.

Doyoung’s watched him grow, knows how much unbridled energy lies behind that shy smile, but he still wonders whether that’s enough. Stronger men than Jungwoo have fallen, succumbed to the industry’s demands.

And Doyoung was there for his debut: he was there when Jungwoo cried before his first stage and he was there when Jungwoo had a panic attack in the hall outside the rehearsal room; he’s nearly always been the one to lend him his shoulder, nearly always been the one Jungwoo seeks out. He still lies awake at night wishing he could have been there when Jungwoo was sick in the hospital, wishing he hadn’t found out six months after the fact, on VLive of all things.

They’d known each other all of two weeks when Jungwoo first looked up at him, tentative and wide-eyed, and asked, “Can I lay my head on your shoulder?”

Looking back on it, Doyoung doesn’t think he could have said no if he tried.

It was awkward at first, the negotiation of space and where and how everything fit together, because the extent of Doyoung’s experience with skinship extended to quick friendly embraces and girlfriends who seemed to know more than he did. He moved and wondered if Jungwoo would move with him; he tapped away on his laptop and wondered whether it would be better for him to surrender to the embrace entirely.

He didn’t, not that first night. Not for a while.

It started out slowly, Jungwoo stacking his legs on top of Doyoung’s, or flopping down on the couch and slumping into Doyoung’s side, Doyoung hesitating just a bit before putting away his phone or laptop and winding an arm around Jungwoo’s shoulder. As time passed, and they got more comfortable with each other, it became kind of their thing—curling up on the couch or in one of the chairs in the common room to watch a movie with the others, his head on Jungwoo’s shoulder or Jungwoo’s head in his lap, keeping time with the soundtrack on each other’s arms, lingering long after everyone else has gone to bed. Just them, and a blanket, and a quiet. Doyoung wishes he could savor these moments more than he does, because they feel like they should be reserved for something special. Something more than what they have. Something stronger.

Because Doyoung doesn’t know what they have, not really. He’s tried to put his finger on it and come to no real conclusion. It’s different than anything he’s felt in any of his past relationships. It’s—it’s this protectiveness, this overwhelming urge to wrap this tall, goofy dork in a fluffy blanket and shield him from everything awful and terrible and evil in this world. And he’s never really been one for skinship, certainly never had this level of physical connection with any of his friends before, so he doesn’t know how to define it. Does he want to?

Does he _need _to?

“You’re being dramatic,” his brother tells him on a video call, which is the least ironic thing he’s ever told Doyoung. “You live with these people, it’s only natural for you to be closer to each other than most people.”

Doyoung wants to scoff and tell Donghyun that they lived together for years and were never that close, but then, he and Donghyun barely saw each other most weeks. They weren’t constantly together all hours of the day, training together, eating together, struggling together. Donghyun never had to watch nine other boys working themselves to the bone, muscles lagging, sweat dripping down their faces as the choreographer barks, “Again, again!” for five hours in a musty practice room.

Doyoung’s seen more than he’s liked, living in the dorms. He’s been closer to real sadness and heartbreak and devastation than he’s ever been, and he has to admit he’s one of the luckier ones. He’s been through thick and thin with his members and they get on his nerves and under his skin a good ninety percent of the time, but even when they were starting out he already knew them better than his friends back home. Knew their weaknesses and their breaking points and the pieces of home they missed more than anything; knew, most of all, that if anything were to happen to them he’d never forgive himself.

Maybe it’s his fading memories, but Doyoung can’t think of any moment with his friends, or his family, that brought as much euphoria or as much visceral pain as with his members.

And when Jungwoo goes down in the middle of their warm-up, he knows he has never, never been more scared.

He hears it before he sees it. There’s a loud _thud_ as the body hits the ground and he knows, before he looks, that it’s Jungwoo.

“Move,” Taeyong’s saying, elbowing his way through as the rest of 127 swarms their fallen member, Doyoung trailing behind. He can only catch glimpses—an ankle here, an awkwardly-bent arm there, Jungwoo’s eyebrows creased in pain. “Jungwoo, hey. Hey. Are you okay? Look at me, look at me. Look at hyung. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Taeyong’s cradling Jungwoo’s head in his lap and he’s feeling him for a fever and Jungwoo’s blinking up at him, confused and so, so scared, and Doyoung wants to puke. He thinks if he emptied his guts on the practice room floor, no one would care.

“Give him space, guys, give him space,” says Johnny, somehow managing to keep himself composed as he waves everyone back. Yuta’s got an arm around Donghyuck. Mark’s lip is trembling. They’ve had members go down before but this is different, this is _Jungwoo._

“Let’s get you to the nurse,” Taeyong says. He’s got an arm around Jungwoo’s waist and Jungwoo’s leaning on him and he looks so frail, like a marionette without strings, all that buoyant energy completely drained.

Practice is cancelled. Doyoung barely registers the choreographer’s voice, Jaehyun’s hand on his shoulder as he steers him into the hall.

He’s aware, though, of the sudden chill in the room as Taeyong and Jungwoo disappear around the corner.

Doyoung doesn’t see Jungwoo for another two days.

He falls asleep with tears drying on his face and wakes up with his heart pounding, head dizzy with fear. The thought of visiting Jungwoo makes his stomach twist, bile rising in his throat. They’ve spent time apart before, back when 127 was nine and Sicheng wasn’t touring in China, but this—it’s different. Doyoung feels the empty space where Jungwoo’s shoulder should be knocking into his, finds himself looking over his shoulder for a familiar blond head, and feels incomplete.

The managers haven’t said anything yet, but Taeyong mentions to him in passing that Jungwoo’s considering taking some time off. They all know it’s long overdue, and Doyoung’s nails dig into his palms as he tries to figure out how the company let it get this bad. Did they all agree to the insanity of coming back in the middle of tour? He doesn’t think they had a choice.

They’re at dinner, Doyoung not really eating, when Taeil notices him set his chopsticks down for the third or fourth time and reaches across the table to squeeze his hand.

“He’s okay, Doyoung,” he says. “He probably wants to see you.”

Doyoung nods, but it’s close to midnight when he finally swallows down his anxiety and knocks on Jungwoo’s door. He lets himself in without really thinking about it; Jungwoo’s on the phone, tucked into bed with the covers drawn up to his waist and a soft, tired smile.

“Yes, I’m fine, Xuxi. I’m just taking a break for a bit. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back as soon as I’m rested.” Lucas’s low rumbling spills out from the phone’s speaker, and Jungwoo chuckles. “No, no, really. I’m excited, actually. More time to catch up on all your stages. WayV, fighting!”

The conversation peters out, and as Jungwoo sets the phone down, he catches Doyoung’s eye. His smile widens, and Doyoung doesn’t hesitate as he crosses the room, crawls into Jungwoo’s bed, envelops him in the tightest hug he can manage.

Jungwoo leans into it without protest, his head brushing Doyoung’s chin. “Miss me?” he asks, voice lilting playfully.

“Yeah,” Doyoung says. He doesn’t let go.

“Mm.” Jungwoo relaxes against him, eyes falling shut. “Sorry, hyung.”

“Shh.” Doyoung lifts a finger to Jungwoo’s lips, smiling as Jungwoo pouts. “Feeling better?”

Jungwoo nods. “Tired,” he murmurs. “So tired.”

“I know.” Doyoung sighs, pillows his cheek against Jungwoo’s hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t come visit sooner.”

“It’s okay.” Jungwoo hums, vibrations thrumming against Doyoung’s collarbone. God, Doyoung’s missed this. He can’t remember ever being starved for touch before, but for the last two nights, all he’s craved was the feeling of another human body against his, something solid to keep him grounded. Jungwoo keeps him grounded, as much as he likes to think he keeps Jungwoo grounded.

Maybe that’s what they are: each other’s rocks. Anchors to the shore, keeping each other from floating out to sea. Maybe that’s all they need to be.

The silence stretches on, nothing but the sounds of their breathing mingling against the quiet. It’s peaceful, but it’s not quite _right,_ and Doyoung finds himself singing the first few bars of “breathin’” by Ariana Grande, just above his breath, keeping time on Jungwoo’s shoulder. Jungwoo follows with the harmony, their voices blending as smooth and even as on that night on the Ferris wheel in Atlanta, the night that feels so long ago and far away it could have been a dream.

In the morning they’ll be looking for him. On any other night he’d be worrying about it, counting the seconds until Jungwoo fell asleep or came back to his senses, debating whether or not to break the hold himself. But there are more schedules and more stages and more planes to catch, places to go, and he won’t have Jungwoo to anchor him, and it won’t be the same. He’ll gladly let time pass him by if it means he gets here, now, with Jungwoo warm and solid against him, his chest rising and falling in Doyoung’s arms, letting Doyoung breathe again.

Yeah, Doyoung worries a lot. He worries about Jungwoo most of all.

But maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Am I really an angst hoe or am I just constantly looking for an excuse to write sad boi hours cuddle fic


End file.
